


A Port’s Tinting

by subito



Category: Blindspot (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:12:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subito/pseuds/subito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unexpected event brings about questions and new understandings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Port’s Tinting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [OhWilloTheWisp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhWilloTheWisp/gifts).



Special Agent Kurt Weller points his light into the dark hallway, finding only splintered wood and dust particles swirling around wildly. They tell the story of the few minutes it took him to get here: 

It had started with sharp sounds of surprise and telling thuds of fight, aggressive grunts and blunt, unyielding punches thrown to kill. They hammered through his head, earpiece to bone to blood, a flood of adrenaline rushing him, pushing him, onwards to swallow the traces of guilt and fear. As he had run up the three flights as fast as he could, the hasty clang of his own boots on the steel staircase had drowned out all the chaos inside the building. He had found the metal door, its high security standard disguised by paint flaking away from dark patches of rust. There had been no time to establish how it had been breached but he had made a note of it, whispered it with calm anger to his team. Then Kurt Weller had slipped into the metallic darkness to find Jane Doe.

He is scanning the area, making sure there isn’t another attacker waiting, passing vacant rooms with stone walls stripped and windows barred. A muffled scream, louder than the one he is being fed through his earpiece, closer, makes Kurt’s head snap to the right, gun and eyes and light directed toward the source.

The room is sparsely furnished; they have had to move Jane here not four nights ago. Despite that, the room looks like a hurricane has wrecked it. The bed that used to be next to the door is now pushed deep into the corner of the long wall, at least two cups and the shelf they sat on are broken pieces coloring a thin, ripped carpet, and what used to be a dusty table lies folded over on the uncovered ground, showing a visible dent. Everything that could be and has been used as a weapon seems to be edging away from the two people in the middle of the room.

Kurt finds Jane looming over her attacker, bigger and more frightening even in person than the enormous shadow of her that his light projects onto the wall behind. She has one knee pushed in deep between a woman’s shoulder blades, forcing her to lean forward while wrapping a piece of torn cloth around the neck at the same time, yanking it backwards and upwards, creating an optimal stretch to cut off air supply, an optimal angle to kill.

The woman’s hands frantically try to get between the thin layers of cloth and flesh, life and death, but Jane has already trapped her too tightly in all the relevant places. It would take only one more manic motion, Kurt realizes. Looking at Jane, he isn’t sure she does, too. Or rather the part of her that is Jane doesn’t. The other part, the buried one bursting alive, the part that may or may not be Taylor, that part knows exactly what is happening. It’s the part that knows the languages of humans and monsters alike, the part that knows the languages of death in all their strange dialects. But Jane, the person Kurt has come to know and respect and trust, is someone deeply worried about being a bad person; someone who will regret killing that woman; someone who even now, despite the strength and will to survive, seems stunned by her own actions. That’s the person he wants to protect, the person he cannot bear to see destroy her self. Not when he can try to do something about it.

Kurt runs towards them, forcing Jane to take him for another attacker and to let go of the strangling cloth with one hand. He ducks her punch and tackles the other woman to the ground, having her gag and cough into the debris-covered floorboards.

Jane stands motionlessly next to them in the destroyed room, her eyes fixed on the shadowy wall and something much further away. Kurt is still pinning down the weakened attacker, whose gash above her right eyebrow forces her to keep one eye closed. Kurt tightens his grip and looks to Jane, saying her name, calling her, over and over again, each syllable another hit to shatter the distance. When Jane finally looks at him, eyes big and wide and full of terrifying questions, he asks if she is okay but she cannot answer.

Someone in Kurt’s ear tells him the team is coming in to take the attacker away for questioning. He confirms their status and position, never loosening his grip on the woman on the ground, never letting his eyes leave Jane. 

As soon as everyone has left, Kurt goes over to Jane, who is still standing around purposelessly, shoulders tense and fists clenched. She looks up at him when he steps close enough to enter her personal space. It’s close enough to see where the attacker managed to hit her, close enough to see dark marks forming and filling in some spaces between the interlacing red-blue patterns on her right arm; close enough to see how the anger underneath her layers of confusion is slowly ebbing away, taking with it the muscle tension, causing her to start shaking. Kurt slowly takes her opening hands, feeling fingers flutter like the wings of the insects he remembers trapping in glass bottles when they were young. 

He gives Jane time to withdraw but she just closes her eyes and exhales a shaky breath. Careful not to touch her bruised and blood-crusted knuckles, Kurt closes his hands over hers, finding warmth where he expected coldness. It’s a different kind from his own: fear and compassion, seeds of hate and love, and he feels like it’s a poison he is able to suck out of her, bringing her back into the now and back to the room, back to him. 

Jane opens her eyes, the lines of strain around them almost gone. She is looking directly at him, into him, so intensely that all he can do is swallow and look away. He lowers their hands and tells her they also have to leave, to debrief before the night gets too long, and she nods.

A car drives them through the night while they are expected to answer questions. Neither of them is able to give a lot of information bar those relating to details of the confrontation itself, which leaves everyone agreeing to pursue questioning the attacker and meeting again the next day. 

When the car empties, Kurt stays with Jane, insists on escorting her to a new apartment the FBI considers safe. She gives him a grateful look and turns her head towards the car window. There is a tiredness descending, filling the silence comfortably, enveloping them like the soft fog building up outside. Gradually, Kurt becomes aware of Jane leaning into him ever so slightly. Their shoulders are barely establishing contact but what little pressure and friction it creates offers reassurance to them all the same. Somewhere along the way, neon lights turn into road signs, pot-holed streets into empty highways, blocks of concrete into lawns with giant sprinklers.

The new place nondescriptively blends into the suburban neighborhood. It comes with an old woman keeping up appearances for concerned eyes, of which too many exist especially in places like these. Mayfair had declared it the perfect choice for Jane’s safe-keeping precisely because of that.

The old woman shows them inside through a big front door with a sign that says ‘welcome’ and tiny clay animals in various poses. Her fake friendliness and studied disinterest where it counts lead Kurt to suspect she used to be much more than she seems now. She turns around as if she had sensed him staring and a glint of sharp intellect makes him correct that to her still being far from the innocent, cuddly or even senile pensioner she can play to perfection when the situation requires it. 

Jane senses some of it as well, a hint of recognition in the way she carries herself, establishing a claim of authority. It’s a sort of authority that speaks of the power to inflict wounds, physically and otherwise, a sort of authority that spells mistrust at the best of times. They may tell Jane that she is in safe hands but any one amongst them knows there is only one person in the room that description fits a hundred percent. 

Two guards have come in after them, posing as carriers with suitcase props. Kurt hopes at least one contains something useful like a resupply of ammo and some gadgets. The five of them crowd Jane’s new room. An effort has been made to make it appear like a cozy guestroom but years of it not having been lived in give it a sterile feel despite the soft carpet and colors. After a few moments where none of them says a word, one of the two guards shrugs and sets down the suitcases he had still been holding. The other looks around until the old woman gives him a tiny nod of dismissal and puts down his two suitcases. Kurt is looking at them, seeing the old woman move from the corner of his eye and takes it as a sign to turn towards the door as well.

“Kurt, I -,” Jane starts to say when she sees the old woman also stop in her tracks.

Jane fixes her with a look that causes the woman to mutter “Very well,” and shut the door with an audible click.

“Kurt, would you-“, she starts again, then looks around the room until she spots the tiny fridge in the kitchenette. She opens it, fishing out two bottles with brown liquid inside, holding them up like some kind of prize. 

“-stay for a drink?” she finishes and follows his gaze to the labels on the bottles.

“Root beer?” he laughs. “I’d be surprised if you liked it but sure, let’s find out.”

Jane mirrors his smile managing a split second her mind pushes aside everything that happened earlier.

Half an hour and two bottles of root beer later, Kurt has Jane laughing about a story of his nephew being a mischievous little devil in kindergarten. He opens his third bottle and Jane puts down her empty glass of water and excuses herself.

When she hasn’t returned about five minutes later, Kurt knocks on the door to the bathroom.

“Jane, is everything okay?” he asks and listens. “Jane?”

“I- I don’t know,” she answers after a few seconds.

“Jane? I’m coming in!” Kurt replies and opens the door.

He sees her staring into the mirror, wet hands clutching the rim of the sink, the scab on her knuckles even darker now against the white fingers. Kurt steps up behind her, his front almost touching her back, trying to make her see him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice quiet. “Jane, look at me, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t-,” she is still looking at herself. “I don’t know. I- I look at myself. Here. In the mirror. And I should see– see something. I should recognize something, anything about the person staring back at me. But there is nothing. Nothing, Kurt!”

She draws a deep breath and meets his eyes in the mirror. “I don’t know this person. I don’t know who this is, who I am- I didn’t even know if I liked coffee. Or bagels. Or root beer!” Jane is looking at him with the same intensity as earlier and Kurt is matching her this time.

Then her eyes drift back to her own face and all intensity is gone, her voice barely a whisper. “I look at this person and I’m not sure she exists. Sometimes I think I’m going mad,” Jane draws another deep breath and lets the last words flow out on borrowed air. “Sometimes- I’m not even sure I exist.”

Kurt gently takes her hands again, just holding them for a few seconds, helping her feel something else than the hard porcelain. Jane turns around then, bringing her hands up in front of herself, wringing them, looking down. It’s a motion that comes from within, as much a protective gesture as a vulnerable one. Because once she stops and tries to hold still, her fingers will continue to twitch and tremble. 

Her jaw is pressed together tightly with teeth on teeth and the tongue against the roof of her mouth. Kurt tips up her chin, makes Jane look at him, searching her eyes to make sure he can reach her.

“Jane,” he says as calmly as possible. “You are here.”

Kurt puts his hands on the side of her face without pressure. Her pupils are blown up so big the green is merely a small ring around the black that soaks up all the light, all the words, all he has to give her.

“You _are_ ,” Kurt repeats. “Here.”

He emphasizes his words with a brush of his fingers against her cheeks.

“You are here. With me,” he continues. “And I’m here. Not because of a past I shared with someone but because of you. Because I care about you. Now.”

Jane searches his faces for clues of lies but all that is written in the lines of Kurt’s face is earnestness. 

She nods and looks down at her hands once again. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks. “Thank you.” 

They return to the sofa and Kurt hands her one of the blankets that lay folded at one end. He is about to say something when Jane stops him.

“I’m not sure if I can fall asleep like this. Things come to me and-,” she stocks, “-today-,” she slings the blanket around her shoulders, gripping the ends at the front. “But I need to sleep. And- I think it would help if we sat down a bit longer. Just sitting-“

“Okay,” Kurt cuts in quietly. “Okay.”

He sits down next to her, his hands on his knees, withstanding the urge to move until she seeks out contact. Kurt puts an arm around Jane’s blanketed shoulders but doesn’t pull her closer. He just lets his arm be a comforting weight, a focus point for her to locate herself in relation to everything that surrounds them. They are both tired enough to fall asleep like this, wrapped in dimmed light and strange rooms and fuzzy details.

Kurt’s eyes had already closed when he jerks awake again; Jane’s head has fallen against his shoulder and her hair tickles against his face. Her eyes open at the same time but there isn’t enough energy left in her to be truly alert. She looks up at Kurt through her already half-closing eyes and a tiny smile lifts the corners of her mouth. Kurt shifts them into more of a lying position so he can stretch out his legs and put the blanket loosely over both of them.

Jane’s mind is still on the edges of sleep, taking in deep, deep beats of rhythmic restfulness. Each lub and dub is a breath taken more easily and she lets the thuds resonate, drumming and humming her to sleep. It’s a potent lullaby and her fingers involuntarily mimic Kurt’s heart, pressing almost undetectably into his skin with every contraction.

For a few short moments after Jane has fallen asleep Kurt just concentrates on how tranquil she looks, how young. He can almost see the little girl she once was, the girl he still believes she was, his friend with those same eyes and that same scar.

Her head is close enough and angled just so for him to see the little white line. He can smell her hair, shampoo he doesn’t recognize, and smell her skin, still coated in a hint of soap despite the earlier attack. But right there where the scar is, at the back of her neck, he detects something familiar, something that summons memories of carefree summer days.

It isn’t so much that he actively knows what Taylor smelled like. Maybe his brain registered and stored it away during a play fight or while they were building parts of their secret hiding place. All Kurt knows is that Jane, the person in his arms right now, reminds him of happiness and home.

His fingers ghost over her scar, linger shortly on the welt that is hit differently by the sparse light, making it more prominent, a point of origin. He would like to trace the tattoos that disappear under her t-shirt, follow the lines and patterns and see where it leads them. For now, though, he is content in knowing he can help her discover the past, help her deal with whatever happened, help her seek justice in whatever form she intends. 

When he finally drifts off, his mind is still toying with the implications of his name on her back and a question yet unformed, wondering how deep the imprint is, if it infuses her self, if it all goes beyond just skin and blood and bones.

The morning hasn’t fully broken yet when Jane opens her eyes. She is mapping the still unfamiliar room that is to be her new home until they make progress or the next time something happens. No light penetrates the curtains except for the glow of the streetlights outside the window, harsher than hours before, no longer scattered by the fog. 

She closes her eyes again and presses her head closer to Kurt’s chest; the rhythm still there, still serving to calm her. It’s changing ever so slightly the longer she listens, the pauses in between the low bass getting shorter. It’s a cadence she actively commits to memory, something she wants to cherish, something she feels is essential in ways she hasn’t fully figured out yet..

The body underneath her stretches and Jane starts to move, trying to untangle herself as slowly as possible, thinking maybe Kurt hasn’t woken up yet. She stops when the arm over her shoulder moves and Kurt’s hand rests lightly on her head.

“Stay,” he says in a voice that is barely a whisper and still heavy with sleep. 

Jane feels his thumb moving upon her hair and a finger brushing the nape of her neck.

“If you want to, stay,” he repeats, sleep slowly lifting from his voice and body. 

Jane doesn’t answer, just lays her head back down and gently squeezes Kurt’s other hand that rests on his chest next to her. He curls his fingers around hers, warm and strong, and a shallow sleep claims them again for another half hour.

On their way back to HQ, a clear sky burns through the windshield of the car, making everything seem bright and new and bursting with promise. 

Before they step into the room where Mayfair, Patterson and the rest of the team are already waiting for them, Jane gives Kurt a small smile, which he returns with a nod. It is free of uncertainty; replaced by a sureness that grounds them in the here and now, anchors them in each other, enabling them to conquer whatever lies ahead.


End file.
